


Haymitch's Hunger Games

by Theljiljka



Category: Hunger Games (2012) RPF, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 50th Hunger Games, Angst, F/M, Hunger Games, Hurt, Loss, Love, Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3982177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theljiljka/pseuds/Theljiljka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were many things in life that I long for. Being a participant in the fiftieth Hunger Games definitely isn't one of them."<br/>Through a journey of love, loss, and pain, Haymitch learns a lesson he'll never forget: the Hunger Games have no victors - only survivors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Your turn"

It takes Haymitch's mother multiple tries to get a signal for the TV, and when she finally does, a slight undertone of static still hisses through the living room. A man - no,  _the_  man - appears on the screen just as he strides to the mahogany podium, his chin high and shoulders pushed back as a porcelain blue coat brushes the floor behind him. His blonde beard is woven into multiple braids, most of which go just past his collarbones, while the curled tips of his moustache push upwards as he smiles. President Coriolanus Snow looks into the camera, and Haymitch can feel his blood turn into ice.

 _Your turn,_ his eyes speak.

_Your turn_

His mouth is suddenly flooded with the taste of iron, and Haymitch realizes that he's gnawed off a layer of his cheek.

The sound of clapping and cheering radiates from the TV, almost shaking the small living room. Haymitch, his mother, and father closely huddle together, while his brother sleeps soundly next to them. Each of the three have their own way of expressing panic: his mother has a death grip on Haymitch's arm with one hand, but the other gently strokes her younger son's hair, parting his curls and re-arranging his fringes. His father's eyes are locked on the screen before him, his jaw set and his knee jumps up and down. Haymitch is biting his fingernails until they bleed, and he concentrates on the pain as opposed to the fear.

President Snow, escorted by two well-armed guards, bows to the crowd of people who chant his name as though it was a prayer. Hands clap, handkerchiefs are waved, flowers are thrown on stage. He lets them cheer for a minute or so, fueling their own passion and excitement for the Games. It's terrifying how quickly the mass grows silent when he lifts a large, white-gloved hand in the air.

It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Snow's intimidating smile grows even wider after he clears his throat. A voice, both thick and pure flows from his lips as he thanks everyone in the audience for joining him on this marvelous occasion. Snow speaks a bit about the Rebellion, reminding everyone about the Capitol's victory over the districts, then goes on to repeat the rules of the last Quarter Quell:

" _On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of_ their  _choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."_

The way he says it is sickening. As though the lives of innocent children don't matter. The crowd cheers in agreement, and Snow smiles even wider. Haymitch swore he could smell the thick odor of the deep red rose that has been ever so delicately tucked into Snow's coat pocket.

A young boy walks up to Snow, carrying a small box filled with letters, each one the color of thick cream. Snow drags his fingers over their rims as if he was casting a spell, and victoriously plucks out the first one. He elegantly waves it in a circle a few times for emphasis, snickering as everyone leans forward in anticipation. Haymitch can feel his mother dig her uneven nails into his arm and clench her jaw.

The echo of a wax seal cracking muffles out the world, followed by the slick sound of a letter coming out of its envelope. Snow unfolds the paper, clears his throat, and begins:

" _This year, I proudly announce the fiftieth anniversary of the Hunger Games! For the Second Quarter Quell, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes."_

The world spins. Haymitch chokes. Every moment afterwards is a blur _._

**_-Two Weeks Later-_ **

Chirping birds. This should be a wonderful time to reflect on nature, but it's 5 AM.

I bury my face further in the saliva-stained pillow, fighting back the urge to chuck a rock out the window. Everything hurts as I twist my body in an attempt to block a slit of sunlight that has, of course, managed to fall directly on my face. I spent the night, like all the ones before it, in a half-daze, tossing and turning, trying to get a wink of sleep and failing miserably. After being awake for almost three nights straight, I'd managed to wear myself out to the point where I'd gotten far too tired to sleep. I'd find it funny if I didn't feel like death.

Well, at least I'm not the only one with insomnia. Who can close their eyes, knowing that they, their children, siblings and best friends have twice the chance of going into the Arena?

No, I didn't sleep. Instead, I entertained himself with the mind-relaxing activity of calculating my odds of getting reaped.  _Eight thousand people in the district, about five hundred boys, my name is in there twenty times, times two..._

_**48** _

The damn symbol is hammered into my mind. If someone told me two weeks ago a stupid  _number_  could scare me, I'd call them downright crazy. Guess the joke's on me though, here I am, biting my nails to the bed and plucking my hair like there's no tomorrow.

Well, for me, there might not be.

The sound of metal hitting the floor, followed by my father swearing under his breath snaps me out of my thoughts. Despite my muscles groaning in protest, I force myself to sit up, letting a cold breeze sweep through the holes in my shirt. As I watch the grey-skinned man put a rusted pot back on the old shelves, I wonder how I didn't notice him earlier.

"What are you  _doing_?" I ask, furrowing my brows. My old man is fully dressed in his miner's outfit, minus his coal-stained boots, which lay next to our fireplace. He pays almost no attention to me as he finishes off the last of his drink, wiping his unshaven face with the back of his palm and setting his cup down.

Even though he's in his forties, my father - ' _Mr_. Booker Abernathy' if you will - looks like he's about as old as dirt, and then some. Wrinkles are etched into him, making it seem as though his mouth is sewn onto his face; his hands are shriveled down to nothing but skin, bones, and grime. His eyes hold the color of fresh ashes and his hair further thins with each passing day. I mean, yeah, the guy looks like a scarecrow, but I gotta give it to him, he's one of the tougher men I know. As far back as I can remember, he's been putting food on the table by working as a cole miner - also known as the shittest job in the district.

Even though no one really lives past fifty here, the Seam's geezers tell me I'm the spitting image of my father when he was my age. Oh please, to hell with 'em! I mean, sure, I guess a  _few_ things are the same, but nothing really  _that_ big. Our hair is kinda the same color - an uneven mixture of brown and yellow, not unlike that of dried grass - we both got high cheekbones between which peaks a pointed nose, and our eyebrows arch at the same angles.

Every time I try to imagine my father as a young man, though, I keep on drawing a blank. It just seems so, I don't know,  _unreal._  My father, smiling with his friends as he sipped beer and told jokes. My father, picking up my mother as she squealed at him to put her down. My father, getting down on one knee and asking Annabelle Cathrow to be his wife. My father, having ambitions, dreams of a better life that shriveled away when he'd bought his first pickaxe. All of those scenarios seemed non-existent, no more real than the fairy tales my mother would read to me when I was still a kid. Hell, for all I know, my old man was born with black under his fingernails and a pickaxe in his hand.

Dear God, do I mourn the day that this is gonna be me.

"What does it look like?" father snaps, rolling his eyes. "And for the love of God, be  _quiet_. You'll wake your brother up."

Alfie? Wake up before nine? Ha, when pigs fly. The kid was always a deep sleeper - I bet I could parade a marching band around him and the little guy wouldn't even flinch.

Springs sing as I throw my legs off the bed, resting my forearms on my thighs. "In case you don't remember, it's reaping day." my voice sounds way more pathetic than I want it to be "I thought you'd at least take  _today_  off."

My dad scoffs like I just told him the sky was green. "Yeah, well, not everyone gets that luxury," He says, ending our conversation as quickly as it started.

Fine, whatever. I don't say a word as he laces up his boots and puts on his coat, scowling when he misses a button. "I want you to chop some wood and set a cup of tea for your mother. I'll be back tonight."

And with that, he's out the door.

I huff, rubbing cracked palms over my face and running them through my hair. Of course, what did I expect? He's worked on reaping day ever since I could remember, why should _this_  year be any different?

_Because I have twice the chance of getting reaped_

I sigh through my nose, forcing myself to stop thinking about it.

I lie back down in my bed, not planning to get up for the next few hours. How can I? My arms and legs feel like there are weights tied to them, I have to fight to keep my eyes open, and the ghost of a headache is slowly growing stronger and stronger. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Repeatedly. Pff, as if the peacekeepers give a rat's ass about how I feel. About how  _anyone_ feels. Every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen is expected to be at the reaping, and those white-coated bastards accept no excuses.

Don't believe me? Let me tell you a little story. Last year, a thirteen year old boy by the name of Jon and his mother were publicly executed because he hadn't shown up to the reaping. Why, you ask? Simple: the poor bastard was terminally ill with leukemia, and he couldn't move a single muscle if he'd tried. I got a glimpse of him through his bedroom window when I was passing by his house one day, and let me tell you, I've never seen anyone look so… empty. Jon's hair had thinned, his skin was the same color as his bedsheets, and you'd think he was a pincushion with all those needles in him, each hooked up to either a machine or a bag with clear liquid.

The day after the reaping, Jon was dragged to the stage by his collar, his mother by her hair. As weak as he was, he'd tried to kick the peacekeepers off, but a shock from a taser calmed him down. Oh man, I can still hear the mother's pleas as a peacekeeper brought a gun to the base of Jon's head, taking his sweet time to load it. She'd managed to break from the grasp of the other soldiers just as a bullet went through her son's head, ending what little life he still had in him. Red splashed over the stage an-and…. Oh, God almighty, her scream was the loudest noise I'd ever heard. The powerful voice, however, died in her throat as she met the same fate.

… what a wonderful thing to think about this early in the morning.

Think about something else.  _Anything_ else. I run through the reaping statistics again until I can't stand to be in my own mind anymore. I force myself to stand up, knowing that sulking about the reaping can do nothing but make me feel even worse. When I stretch my arms, my palms graze the ceiling, staining my fingertips in a murky shade of brown. In a few short steps, I find myself in front of our stove, throwing two logs into the old metal box and kindling them.

I won't lie to you, our house is pretty small. It's made up of two rooms: a 'larger' one where we sleep, eat, play games with makeshift cards and watch TV on the rare occasions when there actually  _is_  electricity **;**  and another, much smaller one, that could almost be called a kitchen. The house itself is made of a concoction of materials: bricks, cement, rocks and hay can be found in the walls and ceiling, while the floor is a pattern of uneven cobblestone.

I gotta admit though, as unglamorous as it is, I like the house for its familiarity. I can lie in my bed and tell the time of day by the angle of the sunlight pouring through the window. I know how far the door can open before it's hinges creak, and how you need to push the knob upwards so that it can lock. I know every angle and crack in each of the fifty-two rocks that make up the floor, and can find various shapes among them. Knowing that you'll wake up every morning in the same place is one of the few comforts of life.

The sound of a mattress creaking shakes the air, and I see the faint silhouette of my mother as she rises from the bed. First, the curtain of dark brown hair, followed by a grimacing face, eyes pinched against the sunlight. She pushes her left hand outward, reaching for her husband and groaning when she noticed he isn't there. Sheets slide down and pool on the bed as Annabelle pushes herself upwards, making an effort to soak in her surroundings.

She blinks a few times and rubs her face, smiling when she turns to me.

"Morning, h _o_ ney." she yawns, scratching the back of her head. "Did you sleep well?"

I feel my hands tighten around the kettle's handle as I set it on the stove. I know it's a question you ask out of courtesy, but it sets me on an edge.  _No, I didn't sleep well. I haven't been 'sleeping well' for the past two fucking weeks, actually, and neither has anyone else in all the twelve damn districts. How the hell am I supposed to 'sleep well' when my throat could be slit open in a few days?_

I force it all down. "Of course." I smile, kissing her on the head.

Putting it simply, my mom is the polar opposite of her husband. Short, thin, and always smiling for no reason, I'll never understand how she can be so full of life. I'm a bit of a reckless kid, I gotta admit, but her patience with me knows no bounds. She was never too tired to read me bedtime stories as a child, she never ran out of bandages to wrap my cuts and scrapes with, she never scolded me when I'd fight with someone and come home with a black eye, begging her for something cold to put on it. Everything she does is done with care. Her love is a debt I'll never be able to repay.

"What time is it?" She asks, dimples forming on her cheeks as she smiles. I know she hasn't forgotten it's reaping day, but she's doing a marvelous job at hiding it.

I look out the window. "I'd say around ten."

Mom nods, thanking me as I hand her a cup of tea. "Okay," she says to herself, her voice so soft a light breeze almost muffles it out. She stares at the leaves that have piled on the bottom of her cup, as if lost in deep thought. I don't interrupt her as she thinks, and the two of us share a comfortable silence.

"I'll get you a bath ready, honey." She finally breaks it, lifting her eyes to me, "Could you set up breakfast for us?"

I nod. Honestly, 'set up' might be a strong word for it. Our breakfast consists of a cup of tea, a slice or two of bread (sometimes with a thin layer of strawberry jam, usually bought from Layton Everdeen), and a few apple slices from a tree out back. I put everything over a stained tablecloth and bring over a sweating pitcher of water too, just in case.

Before we sit down to eat, my mother reminds me to wake up my brother. I do so by flicking his ear so hard he yelps.

"C'mon, breakfast is ready." I say to the lump under the blanket. He responds by murmuring something along the lines of  _wanna more sleep_ and pulls the covers up even further.

If that's how he's gonna play it, it's time to pull out the big guns. "If you're not up in a minute, I'm pouring a bucket of creek water over you."

That gets his attention. A head full of curly brown locks springs up, eyes suddenly widened. "You wouldn't  _dare_ ", Alfie says, and it almost sounds like a threat.

I lean closer so that our foreheads are almost touching, an evil smirk on my face. " _Try me."_  I mock his tone, and he gives me a sharp look that would make me laugh if it was any other day. Of course I'd never do it, but teasing him is somewhat of a hobby of mine. I ruffle his hair as his yawn echos through the room, and he sluggishly gets up.

Alfie is definitely his mother's son, both in physical appearance and personality. Maybe it's just because he's young, I don't know, but he definitely shares her cheerfulness towards life. His brown eyes have the same twinkle as hers when he talks, they have the same curly, chocolate hair, cheeks dotted with delicate freckles and small button nose.

It's too early for Alfie to go upon his normal rambling, and I'm far too nervous to say anything, so breakfast is spent with my mother making small talk. What else could we do? " _Today might be the last day you see me alive. So, how about that?"_ hardly seems like a good conversation starter, and neither of us can bring ourselves to mention the reaping. No, this morning, we talk about the weather. We remind each other how this winter was unusually short, and how mom can't wait to see how her garden will turn out. The early spring is reviewed, their neighbors tulips are complemented. Tension hangs in the air, both of us ignoring it as best we can. After all, who can muster up the courage to talk about the elephant in the room?

When the meal is finished, I take away our dishes and place them in a water-full washbowl as mom fills up my bath. I waste no time stripping myself and collapsing into the tin tub, savoring the warm sensation. Beads of water drip from its edges and darken the floor as I grab a bar of soap, cursing when it almost slips from my fingers. I scrub off yesterday's dirt and last night's sweat, watching the water turn darker and darker with each warmth is undeniably pleasant, and getting out seems like a miserable chore. I swear at a cold breeze that flows by me as I put on last year's reaping clothing: a simple, white, button-up shirt, black pants decorated with a brown belt, and my usual boots.

I find Alfie standing in front of our mirror, knuckles on his hips and a grin on his face. Despite not being old enough for the reaping -  _thank God_  - our mom has dressed him up quite fancily, at his own request, of course. She even agreed to let him wear father's bowtie, as long as he doesn't tell him. I, on the other hand, don't bother to look at myself in the mirror. I know what I look like.

The sound of ringing can faintly be heard in the distance, a sign that the reaping will start in less than an hour. I notice the worried expression on mom's face - actually, 'panic' would be the more accurate word. Her eyes grow wide, her mouth scrunches in, her jaw tightens, and she sucks in a sharp breath. By the time she lets it out, she's returned to her old, smiling self. With a warm expression, she nudges my brother and tells him it's time to leave.

Wordlessly, we exit the house. My mother, just as she has on all reaping days before this one, doesn't say a word. Other families march with us to the square, and I keep an eye out for two red pigtails - the trademark of the woman I'm proud to call mine, Amelie.

How we meet is a rather cheesy story, I gotta say, but she just loves it. On her first day at our school, a good number of years back, some jerks from our class teased her mercilessly about her hair color. They went as far as to pull on her braids and call her a freak, saying that they looked like carrots. I told them I'd feed them their teeth if they didn't back off, and I ended up keeping my promise. One black eye, two bloody knuckles and a detention slip later, we introduced ourselves, and ended up becoming great friends.

My family arrives at the square rather quickly - either because I'd lost myself in thought or we walked twice as fast, most likely both - and I notice that it's almost full. The stench of evaporating sweat mixes with the dust, giving the air a disgusting, pasty feel. I turn to my mother, who hasn't lifted her gaze from her feet since we've left the house. She notices me staring and looks up, a faint, fake smile on her face. She stares back at me for a moment, as if to memorize my features, then pulls me into a hug.

"I love you." She says, even though I already know that. Her voice is muffled by my hair. I let my hands wrap around her upper back, holding on to her shoulders. She's shorter than me by a few inches, and rests her head on my collarbone.

"I love you too." I say, even though she already knows that.

We stay like this for a moment before finally breaking away, and I hug my younger brother too. Thankfully, Alfie doesn't seem upset by the slightest. He cheerfully waves to me as I walk into line, waiting for the peacekeeper to prick my finger and take blood as proof that I wasn't stupid enough to ditch the reaping.

The square quickly grows more and more crowded. I find myself standing a few rows back from the stage, along with all the other sixteen year old boys. Everyone around me seems to be talking, their murmurs vibrating the air. I scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot a redhead.  _My_ redhead.

"Amelie!" I shout her name, waving to her over a small sea of people. She looks around for a bit, confused as to who called her, but her face lights up when she sees me. Amelie waves back just as enthusiastically, her green eyes and freckles shining like crystals from the sun. She sends me a kiss just as a tall girl stands to her left, blocking her out of my view. I curse under my breath, but decide to let it go. Oh well, I'll probably take her out somewhere when this is all over, anyway.

If neither of us get reaped, that is.

I mentally smack myself.  _ **Stop it.**_ _Stop thinking like that._

More and more children pile up into the square, pushing and shoving against each other like sardines. I trying to look for my own friends in this sea of people would be useless. The smell of sweat is almost painful by now, and I'm tempted to lift my shirt over my mouth and nose. Chatter vibrates the air, and I feel my headache growing stronger.

Suddenly, a high-pitched sound pierces from the speakers, causing everyone to cringe and fall silent within moments. I hadn't even noticed Mayor Evelyn Parrish appear on the stage, patiently waiting for everyone to pipe down.

Her figure is covered in her normal attire: a sharp grey suit, knee-high skirt and black heels over stockings. Now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever seen her wear anything else. Her blonde hair is oiled back in a short, tight ponytail, and her left hand holds speech cards.

All eyes are turned to her as she smiles at the crowd. I brace myself to hear the same, stupid, boring story that's repeated every damn year. She talks about the history of Panem, the creation of the Capitol, the Dark Days, yada yada  _yada_. Everyone in the districts know this story by heart, seeing as we're mercilessly forced to listen to it every year, and don't even get me started on school. She's required to read it, I know, but I'd be tempted to yell at her to get on with it if that didn't mean getting a bullet to the head.

When she finishes, a faint, forced applause comes from the crowd. She takes a bow, then extends her hand to her left.

"Thank you, thank you." She says, a tight smile on her face. "Now, if you would, please welcome our own victor, the winner of the twenty-seventh Hunger Games, Emory Lowery!"

Ahh, yes, the great  _Emory Lowery!_ In reality, she's the most miserable person you'll ever meet. Some of the younger children are convinced she's a witch, and in all honesty, I almost believe it myself. Even though she was seventeen at the time, her hair went white soon after she came back from the Games due to the stress. The scars on her almost non-existent forearms follow no order, no pattern, looking as though a child had scribbled them on. Her skin color almost matches her hair, making her harsh black eyes jump out so much it's scary.

Emory limps on the stage with one bony, white hand tightly wrapped around her mahogany cane. Her limp leg is another blessing of the Games - way I hear it, a career tribute lodged an ax into it. She wears a simple black shirt and slacks, and with the half-dead way she walks, you'd think they weigh a ton each.

Emory waves at the crowd in a 'yeah, yeah, yeah, lets just get this the hell over with' sort of way. She slumps into her seat and throws her head back, not bothering to say a word during the entire event. Good to know I'm not the only one excited for today.

The next person though - damn, now  _that_ is a freak show. The Mayor introduces her as Vivienne Allsew, the Capitol's new escort. A short woman in sky-high green heels struts on the stage, and I swear I can smell her perfume from five rows back. Her puffy dress is made of so many swirls of neon pink and lime green it makes my head spin just by looking at it. Her hair is puffed into a sphere and dyed in the same hues, decorated with a colorful selection of bows. Her teeth, bleached to the point where they can't be whiter, are surrounded by bright orange lipstick. Crystals are dotted delicately over her eyebrows and eyelids, and the shine from them almost makes me squint. When she steps up to the microphone, I notice that her skin has been covered in some sort of glittering powder. Lord almighty, is there even a human being underneath all that? Right now, she scares me more than the Games do.

She half struts, half hops up to the microphone, her orange fingernails wrapping themselves around the metal pole as she flashes a brilliant smile.

"What a  _be_ -autiful crowd! Happy Quarter Quell, dear chi-ild _ren_!" Vivienne speaks the way a bird chirps, randomly talking in higher tones, "I'm sure you're  _all_  as excited as I aaa-mm!"

Even though no one cares, she goes on to lie about what an honor it is to be here. District Twelve is a laughing stock to the rest of the nation, and she knows it. Still though, her bubbly facade never once slips as she announces "La- _adies_  first!"

I didn't think they could they send a bigger airhead then the blue-skinned man we had last year.

I stand corrected.

She trots to the bowl on the right, and I feel my breath stop in my throat. I look over to Amelie, who looks over to me, and I give her a reassuring nod. Over half a thousand slips lie in there, her name is in seven times. What are the chances?

Vivienne waves her fingers above the paper slips, finally plucking one a bit to the left. She unfolds the paper as though it will break at the touch and clears her throat.

"Ottilie Patel!" she says, waiting for someone to join her on the stage. "Ottilie, darling wo-ould you come up here?"

Nothing happens for a few moments. I finally hear faint footsteps behind the wall of girls. Ottilie slowly walks up the stairs, her tall figure slouched to almost half her size. From her ragged clothes, olive skin and dark hair, I can tell she's from the seam.

Vivienne stretches and arm out to the girl, ushering for her to walk quicker by waving a hand. Everyone is dead silent, and I can hear her softly crying. Her tears reflect the morning sun off her face, and I feel my gut clench. Right after running for the hills, crying right now is the absolute worst thing you can do to yourself. When the other tributes review the reapings, especially the careers, they immediately rule you out as an easy target, and you're usually the first to die.

Vivienne shakes Ottilie's hand, says something about honor I don't quite catch, and goes back to the same bowl. Once again, she picks out a slip, reading the neatly-written name with a smile. I feel a weight drop off my shoulders when I hear it's not anyone I know.

"Maysilee Donner!" she says, and sighs of relief fill the air, including mine. Okay, at least all the other girls are safe. Phrases like 'I told you so' and 'See? You're okay!' can be heard from them as they exchange hugs.

They seem to have forgotten about Maysilee until she practically shoves her way through the crowd. She doesn't take a moment to hesitate at the steps, proudly marching up with her head high and shoulders pushed back. If she's put off by this at all, the girl's not showing it. Hell, admire her. I can't remember the last time I saw someone go up there so... bravely.

"What a pre- _etty_  little thing you  _are_!" Vivienne talks as though Maysilee is a dog wagging her tail. The girl keeps a straight face though, and seems indifferent when Vivienne ruffles her blonde hair.

Even though I'm relieved that Amelie is safe, even though I've never met Maysilee before in my life, I can't help but feel a pang of grief at seeing her stand there. The Games themselves are bad enough, but seeing a girl that doesn't look a day over thirteen up there makes it even worse.

The airhead speaks again: "And now, for the gentlemen!"

She doesn't even ask for female volunteers, knowing all too well that no one will answer. I feel my heart skip a beat and I grow tense. Vivienne strides to the boy's bowl, and pulls out another slip.

"Rh _ys_  Hogan!" She reads into the microphone. Once again, someone pushes their way through the crowd. Rhys looks to be about my age, with hair as dark as his button-up shirt. He's about the average build, maybe a bit taller. Vivienne enthusiastically welcomes him, though he looks unamused. Well, maybe 'unamused' is putting it lightly. More like contempt. I don't blame him.

"And now, for our final trib- _ute_!"

One last slip. One last slip and I can breathe again. One last slip that doesn't have my name on it, and I'm free. Please, Mrs. Birdbrain, do me this. The escort gives a devilish smile that she, for some crazy reason, thinks is helping.

The very air holds its breath as she picks it up, unfolding it slowly and rolls the name off her tongue:

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

And here I stand, knowing all too well what an unlucky bastard I am.


	2. Chapter 2

The ice in my gut spreads through my veins as I hear Miss  _I'm-so-fucking-bubbly_  excitedly pronounce my name. It doesn't sound real. No, it can't be. This is a nightmare, this is all a horrible, terrible, crazy nightmare. I'll close my eyes, I'll take a deep breath, and when I open them, I'll wake up. My mother will be making breakfast, my brother will be playing outside. I'll feel the caress of my torn bedsheets again, the line of sunlight on my face, feel the rough cobblestone under my feet, and everything will be back to normal.

"H _ay_ mitch  _Ab_ -ernath- _eey_?" Vivienne calls again, confused as to why no one is walking up the stage. Screw want a tribute? They'll get one. Balling my fists, I force all the panic and fear down. Anyone who wants to see me as a weakling can go to hell. I won't give the Careers, the Capitol, or Snow the pleasure of seeing me afraid. I follow Maysilee's example and aggressively shove my way through the crowd, marching up the stage with my chin high and eyes narrowed.

Vivienne flashes a smile, looking like she's just won the lottery. "What a  _hand_ -some young man y _o_ u  _are_!" She does a little clap, "You  _must_  be so ex- _ci_ -teed!"

I'd be rolling my eyes if everyone in Panem wasn't watching me right now.

Mayor Evelyn clears her throat, and (somehow) a light bulb seems to go off in Vivienne's empty head. She scrambles back to her seat as the Mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, and I can't help but feel bad for Evelyn. I've been at the reapings for a total of four years, not to mention all the times I'd sneak out before I was twelve to watch them, and every year the Mayor's voice cracks a bit more. Her posture slouches lower, her eyes grow more hollow, her hands shake a bit more as she reads from the crisp white paper. Sending children to their deaths for so many years has obviously taken its toll, and I don't blame her at all. In all honesty, I'm surprised she hasn't snapped yet.

I look into the mass of people, my eyes darting from head to head, trying to find familiar faces. I spot Amelie's hair through the crowd, and I feel my heart break when I see how horrible she looks. Her head is burried into the shoulder of a friend, and another is saying comforting words as she strokes her orange hair. Oh man, she's crying. Why is she crying? Okay, stupid question, but I just wish she wasn't. She doesn't deserve to.

I pull my eyes away from her and look for my mother. She has Alfie clutched to her chest, lightly bouncing him up and down in an attempt to comfort him as he cries. She doesn't look at me, and I know she can't stand to. After all, seeing me up here will only make her feel worse. My mom, just like me, refuses to let anyone see her cry.

The Mayor finishes reading the Treaty, motioning for us tributes to shake hands. First, me and Ottilie. Her sweat-covered hand trembles as we shake, and she practically snaps it away when we finish. Rhys doesn't seem to care the slightest about what's happening, a fact I'm rather envious of. Maysilee, on the other hand, gives me a firm shake. I catch her eyes, and as blue as they are, I see fire behind them. Determination. She may not have the best chance of winning - hell, she probably doesn't have one at all - but she doesn't show the slightest sign of defeat. I can't help but admire her.

When Panem's anthem finishes playing, we're practically shoved through the doors of the Justice building. By now, I'm surprised Ottilie doesn't make a run for it. I mean, it's happened before - was it four, or five years ago? - and the punishment is surprisingly merciful. You get shot, which isn't so bad, all things considered. It's much worse to get caught by a Career who decides to have a bit of fun with your face before you die.

Last year's images come to mind. A chill runs down my spine like a spider.

Each of us is marched into a separate room, where we will say our goodbyes to anyone that cares to visit. As I sit down and wait for my family, I can't help but notice how lush this place is.

The walls are made of red marble, its white veins illuminated in the light of the sun, while the floor is composed of carefully placed planks. The green, gold-rimmed couch I sit on is made of a material I've never felt before, and I run my fingers over the surface, feeling the small hairs tickle my palms. I didn't even know something could be this  _soft_. Even though there's enough sun coming through the large window, lamps are scattered all over the walls, and they shine with a tint of red. Gold-framed pictures, detailed vases, and all kinds of trinkets are placed around the room, only adding to the expensive, posh feel.

I'm absolutely disgusted. I mean, you gotta be fucking kidding me. The 'fair' and 'humble' government doesn't have enough money to build another orphanage for all those homeless, starving children, or spare some coins for those skeletons of people that live in the Seam, but they can build  _this?_ If I sold everything in this room, I could feed everyone in the Seam a hot meal for the next decade. What the hell is wrong with them?

The door flies open and my brother comes rushing in. I catch Alfie's brown eyes - now a burning red from crying - as he flings his arms around my neck, scratching my skin with his nails. His legs find their way into my lap as he sobs into my chest, and I can feel his tears wet my shirt.

" **Pl-please**  d-d-don't g-go!" he stutters, sucking in air between syllables. I hug him as hard as I can, not knowing what else to do. I can't help but notice how small he is; I could wrap my arms around his frame almost twice now. I can't make out his other words, but I know they're all pleas for me to stay. Cry, I want to tell him. It's okay, I understand. If he was sent to the Games, you better believe I'd be crying too.

I lift his face up, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His cheeks are red, his nose is runny, and a thin line of spit traces down his chin. This  _can't_  be the same Alfie that was happily waving me goodbye not an hour ago. No, no way. I am powerless to do anything but lie:

"Hey, don't worry about it," I wipe his face with my sleeve, deciding to do the impossible: pull off a smile. It feels horribly awkward and painful on my face. "C'mon, I'll be okay, I promise. You  _know_ I'll be back in a few weeks, right, and then we'll move into one of those big houses? You know, the ones with all those rooms? I'll buy you candy every day Al, don't you worry, we'll even eat it for breakfast. Hey, hey,  _look_  at me-"

I hear a heavy sigh, and I notice my mother at the doorway. By her shallow pants, I guess she must've chased Alfie up the stairs. She sits next to me on the couch, stroking my brother's hair just like on the day of the Quell announcement. I might be the one that's being sent to fight in the Arena, but I hardly have it the worst. Alfie is completely broken, and my mother, well, she's a whole different story.

I know exactly what she'll do when the train sends me away. She'll carry Alfie home while he sobs, make him a cup of chamomile tea, and finally put him to sleep. Tonight, when my father comes home, she'll tell him the news. He'll grow furious, throw some pots around, then go for a 'short walk', not coming back until late morning with bags under his eyes. Alfie will be excused from school until the Games end, and my mother will use that time bringing him back to life. She will not cry in front of him, and she will not show a single sign of sadness. No, instead, she'll keep him preoccupied. She'll ask him to help with making cookies, collecting herbs, picking apples and other 'chores' that he loves to do. His smile, like a trampled flower, will never be the same. It will grow back, it will be beautiful, but it will never rise again to it's former glory. My father will come home hours later than usual, because he'll be taking out all his anger and frustration on the coal ore.

When -  _ **If,**_   _Haymitch,_   _if -_  my body comes back, dressed in white and placed in a pretty coffin, my funeral will be held soon after. That night, and only when everyone has gone to sleep, my mother will cry. Her strong heart will pour out, and she'll cry until she has no more wails in her throat and her eyes grow dry. She will sneak out and sit by the creek, grasping onto one of my shirts and begging me to come back. The next day, she will go on as if nothing is wrong. My name will be mentioned less and less, my belongings will all become Alfie's, and I will become a ghost in the house that was once mine. Yet another dead tribute, another martyr for a lost war, another reminder of the Capitol's power over the districts.

Money will also be a problem. I'm sixteen, and my father heavily relied on me working the second I turn eighteen. Alfie is only eleven. No matter what, though, mom will never take him out of school. I can take comfort in this much.

I take a deep breath. This is the conversation I've been dreading for years.  _Alright, you can do this,_ I repeat to myself mentally. I tell my mom about the money I've been stashing for the past three years or so, and how I've kept it all under a loose stone in our floor. I describe it as best I can: right next to the lower left corner of my bed, I tell her, the one in the shape of an upside-down triangle. It's a good amount too, and they should last on it for a bit. I've never taken back a single coin I've placed there, no matter what. All of it has been saved for this, the worst-case scenario: my reaping.

I suppose you're wondering where I've gotten all that money. Oh, thereby hangs a tale. In the Seam, organized fights are regularly held, and they're the main attraction for anyone who loves a good shot of adrenaline. They're never bloodless, they're never quiet. Hey, I know what you're thinking, it's a shitty thing to do, but how else are people supposed to get their kicks in this place? Young men and boys in their teens are usually the main performers, and I'm not very proud to say I'm one of 'em. The rules of the fights are simple: you beat the living hell out of the other person until they beg you to stop, or until they're knocked out cold, though it usually ends with the former.

You can make money off of this in two ways: either by placing bets on a fighter and keeping your fingers crossed, or by jumping in the circle yourself. I was one of the best fighters back there, and I've earned a good amount from it. My nose, slightly twisted to the left, is a medal I've earned from all those bloody nights. A shameful badge of who I am. It probably would have been far worse had mom not been able to somewhat place it back.

My mother nods at every word I say, remembering my description of the stone and not asking any questions. Either she already knows where I've 'earned' it, or is too afraid to ask.

After my confession, I can't bring myself to talk. What can I say to them? That I love them? That I'll miss them? What use is that? We sit there for a while, Alfie's crying muffling out the world, everyone at a loss for words. Soon after, a peacekeeper calls them out. I look up to my mom, and her eyes catch mine. There is despair in them, of course, but there is something else buried inside: a light, a flicker, a delicate candle in the middle of an endless night.

Hope...?

She scoops up my brother, looking back at me with an emotion I can't quite place.

"Would you look at that," She smiles, and I can tell it's not fake. "District Twelve is finally going to have another victor."

And with that, they have left.

It takes me a moment to process her words. Wait, she doesn't really mean it. Does she? I mean, she can't, right? Does mom  _honestly_  think I have a chance at this? It's hard enough in the normal Games, when there's only twenty-four of us, but with  _forty-eight_  other tributes? That means twice as many careers: twelve murder machines that have been trained their entire  _lives_  for this. How do you even go up against that?

Amelie is the next to come. She flings her arms around me, and our lips meet as though we've been apart for decades. The kiss is gentle and tastes like tears, and I completely lose myself in it. I wrap my hands around her waist, trying to etch into my mind every detail about her. The way her chest feels against mine. The smell of her skin. The feel of her hair as I run my fingers through it. The curve of her hips and the line of her spine. The roughness of her elbows. Nothing is missed, nothing forgotten. After what feels like eternity, she pulls away and rumples up my shirt with her hands, digging her face into my chest. It's easy to see that she's doing no better than Alfie.

"If, if you don't come back to me, I'm gonna kick your ass." she whimpers. I chuckle, more for her sake than for mine. I'll miss her sense of humor.

She looks up at me with those bloodshot eyes, and I once again I feel my heart snap. As if seeing Alfie like this wasn't enough. Her face looks like melted wax from the crying, and I feel something stir inside me, but I can't really pin it down. It's like gravity's changed on me. I can't even call what I'm feeling 'pain'. It's burning cold. Freezing heat. Words can't describe what it's like to see the people you love suffer, knowing it's all your fault.

I want to say I'm sorry, but for what? She speaks up again: "You've been fighting with those other boys for  _years,_ Haymitch," Her arms move from my chest to my shoulders, and I feel her shaking me lightly, "You know how to fight! C'mon, I  _know_ you can win!"

I firmly grab both her arms, holding them down. I've seen her like this once before, and I know she's in complete panic mode. "Amelie, it's okay, just calm dow-"

" _Calm down? Calm_ _ **down?**_ " The words snap from her lips, her face grows even redder, and she looks like she wants to slap me, "You're being sent into the Arena, and I'm supposed to fucking calm  _ **down?**_  How can I even  _do_ that? What the hell is  _wrong_ with you? I might never see you again, and I-, I-, I-  _oh_ …" Amelie lets out the heaviest sigh I've ever heard, and we hug again. She's not angry, I know. She just doesn't know what to do.

A peacekeeper calls her out. We share one last kiss, saying that we love eachother.

My friends are the next to come. It's a relief none of them are crying, because I don't know how much more sobbing I can take. I was never the sort to wear my heart on my sleeve, but even I've got a breaking point. They pat me on the back, they say that they'll miss me. We exchange hugs, handshakes, and some of them even tell a few jokes to lighten up the mood. Two of them promise to beat the hell out of anyone who tries to mess with Alfie. I'll miss them, too.

They shout their final goodbyes as we're led down different ends of the hall. I'm a bit nervous of getting into the coal-colored car waiting for me outside, simply because I've never been in one before. I don't even have time to hesitate as a peacekeeper shoves me in it. The interior is all red, done in the same material as the green couch I'd spent the last hour on. I grip to the seat as the engine roars to life, feeling an unfamiliar vibration go through me. The strange contraption occasionally bounces slightly as we ride over the uneven roads, and I find my nails have almost torn the seats. People  _willingly_ ride in these things? I'm thankful it doesn't take long to go to the station.

Someone opens the door for me. I take that as a cue to leave the car, and regret doing so the second I step outside.

The station is swarming with colorful journalists. They shout questions, their bug-like cameras fly into my face, they try to get my attention however they can. Some try to reach out and touch me, but are pushed back by guards. The amount of attention is overwhelming - I've never felt so uncomfortable in my entire life.

I look upwards, and notice my face is on screen. I look confused, which I am, but I paint an arrogant smile on my face. Might as well fake it, right?

I'm mercilessly forced to stand still as the cameras take a million pictures of my face, God forbid they miss a single angle. I look around, and notice the other tributes are being put to the same fate, all of them as weirded out as me.

For the umpteenth time today, someone shoves me from behind. A group of large peacekeepers push through the reporters, clearing my way to the train. I take one look back at the Justice building, bitterly regretting that I've spent my last District Twelve moments inside it.

The train doors make a strange, hissing sound as they close behind me, and I almost fall over when the vehicle begins to move. Everything outside the windows quickly goes blurry. Jesus, how fast are we going? I realize how little time I have left until we're gone, and race to the very end of the train. The staff looks at me like I've gone mad as I shove my way past them, and even then it takes me longer than I'd expected. It's worth it, though: for the first time in my life, I'm gifted a view of district Twelve from the outside.

The entire district is wrapped in a fence of concrete and barbed wire. I can see the chilling forest to the right, and my breath is taken away. Goodness, I could never have imagined it was so big. As children, we were told stories about a young boy named Flint Raynott who was determined to find the end of it. He'd been only ten when he'd started, and came back as an old man with a white beard down to his knees. Flint was just as surprised as everyone else that that he'd returned home, claiming that he'd walked only in a straight line. 'The forest must wrap around the world!', he said.

Well, the story isn't far from the truth. It covers the landscape, twines through valleys, peaks over hilltops until it finally ends at a flawless meadow, many, many miles away. I regret not spending more time exploring it's creeks, listening to the crunch of needles under my boots, enjoying the smell of the pines after rain. I recall how cracks of light would find their way through the trees, mixing with the fog and giving the forest and eerie feel. It's too late now, I suppose. It's always too late.

I can just make out the coal mines, and next to it, the Seam. I stare at the the district as it rapidly grows smaller and smaller, calling back all my memories of it. It's a horrible place, but it's my home. I think about all the time I've spent there, all the 'whens' and 'what ifs' I've earned in my sixteen years of life. I remember all the times I'd managed to hurt myself as a child, climbing trees and tripping over my own feet. I remember how chubby Alfie's cheeks were when he had just been born, and how I'd squish them together so he'd make a funny face. I remember building a birdhouse with my father, the dull  _clanks_ of nails as a hammer met the iron. I remember the clumsiness of my first kiss with Amelie, and how both our cheeks were a burning red afterwards. My life seems to stretch before me like this landscape, and I feel like I've lived forever.

Though, like sand in a tight fist, I try to hold on to my memories, but they pour out and are whisked away in the wind. District twelve is soon nothing but a stain of black in a green landscape, and I give one last, final goodbye.

"Oh, Haymitch, the- _ere_  you are!"

A chill runs down my spine. Dear God, if you're out there, if you haven't forgotten about me yet,  _don't_ let it be who I think it is.

"Why, I've been looking all  _over_  for you- _oo_!" Vivienne says, and I forcefully turn my head to her. "Just running  _off_  like that, why, you didn't even  _gi_ ve us a cha- _an_ ce to show you your roo- _om_!"

I feel like my head is going to burst. The sound of her voice is the last thing I want to be hearing right now, but the last part catches my attention. "What room?"

She looks at me like I've just told her the most shocking news in the world, hands over her mouth and all. "Why ye- _es_! I've already  _got ev_ ery-one settled in! C'mon d _ar_ ling, I'll  _show_  you!"

Before I can say anything, she's already skipping down the hallway. Well, what other choice do I have? I follow her down to my chambers as she explains to me the rules of the train. Basically, do whatever you want, eat whatever you want, ask for whatever you want, but oh goodness, ple- _ease_ be ready for supper in an hour and a ha- _alf!_  She emphasises that you can't open the train windows all the way, and I wonder if she realizes that it's to prevent suicide. She talks about how I have clean clothes in my room, how I can wear whatever I'd like, but goodness no, I should ne- _ever_  mix orange and p _ur_ ple! And don't I kn- _ow_  how monoto _ne_  outfits  _aren'_ t in? But perhaps I would look g- _oo-_ d in green? How she manages to fit all that in the twenty seconds it takes to get to my room is beyond me.

I'm thankful when she leaves me alone. It takes me a moment to figure out how to open the door, but I get it quickly enough: just press the bright red button next to it.

My jaw drops as I walk inside. Man, I don't know how they pulled it off, but this place is even more posh than the Justice building. A large bed lays to my left, while the wardrobe takes over an entire wall. The bathroom is fully equipped, and the only tools I can recognize are a toothbrush, a comb, a razor blade, bars of soap, and towels. Colorful bottles are all over the shelves, some sprays, some creams, each of them labeled with colorful, fancy letters. I can't pronounce half of the names, let alone guess what they're for. Oh man, don't even get me started on all the other gimmicks.

I need a distraction. I decide to take a shower.

Well, at least I think it's a shower. I step inside it and the circular door closes itself beside me. Okay, now to figure out how to work this thing. I look over all the colorful buttons around me, and try to figure out which ones does which. Ah, screw it - I press one of the million buttons and hope it doesn't kill me.

Rose-scented water jets from the holes around me, instantly soaking every inch of my skin. Next comes cinnamon-scented foam that lightly burns my skin, while another sharp smell is poured over my hair. My entire skin feels tingly, as if ants were crawling all over me. Finally, I am rinsed with normal water, and the doors fly open. Well, this isn't strange at all.

I pat myself dry and notice the towel is scented too. What the hell is wrong with these people?

Too many things, I tell myself. Too many things.

I'm just about to put on my reaping clothes back on, but I can already hear Vivienne scolding me:

" _Oh, you shou-_ uld  _put on some_ new  _clothes, de-_ arie _!"_

I decide not to get into that argument. I look through all the drawers, not because I'm particularly interested in fashion, but because I have nothing else to do. I don't know how they managed to pull it off, but some clothes are more colorful than Vivienne herself. In the end, I settle for the only thing that doesn't make me feel like a clown: a black button up shirt with rolled-up sleeves, grey slacks, and brown shoes that are in a strange, rectangle shape.

I debate on whether I should take a nap or not, but decide against it. There's no way I'm sleeping now. Still, I have time to burn until dinner, so I leave my room to explore the train.

I wander around the strange machine, and am asked three times by the servants there if I'm lost. Eventually I stumble into a smaller room with a marble table, two chairs, and, surprisingly, Maysilee inside it.

She's midway into eating a cookie when she sees me. Maysilee lifts a brow, obviously expecting me to say something. I stand there like an idiot for a few moments, figuring out what to do. I know I shouldn't be socializing with someone who I'll have to kill in a week, but I can't stand to be alone right now.

"Mind if I, uh, sit down?" I ask, pointing to the free chair. She pauses a moment, then gives a friendly shrug and a nod, going back to her book.

I'm asked by a woman if I'd like something to drink, and I say a cup of tea. I catch the cover of Maysilee's book - something about botanics. By it's red cover and golden rims, it's a safe bet so say she found it on the train. How can she be reading now? And why, of all things, read about plants?

Maysilee catches me staring and gestures to the bowl, "You can have some cookies if you want." she says, and her voice sounds exactly as you'd expect. Soft, pleasant, a bit higher-pitched, and anything but submissive. "I can just ask for them to bring some more."

I'm about to tell her I was staring at her book, and not her food, but I don't see the point. Of course she thinks that. I mean, I  _am_ from the Seam.

I thank her, though, and take one of the treats. It's pink and in the shape of a heart, with another white layer above it. It's so smooth, I can almost see my reflection in it. Sprinkled with rainbow beads on top, it reminds me of Vivienne's hair. Well, at least it doesn't talk.

I bite it, and I'm thrown back at the sudden burst of flavor. Good God, what is this? It takes me a moment to adjust to it's sweetness, and I find myself puckering my mouth. Cinnamon? Lemon? Strawberries? I can't place it. It's absolutely delicious, and I take another just as the woman comes back with my tea.

Maysilee seems to be enjoying them as much as me. She takes another cookie, eating it in one bite. It's washed down with tea, and immediately replaced by another. With the way we're shoving them down, you'd think we'd never eaten a day in our life.

Minus our munching, the room is quiet, and I feel like my head is going to burst. I'm not one to start conversations, but I'll start screaming at my own silence if the silence goes on any longer.

"Reaping's worked up your appetite?" I ask Maysilee, and it's the best thing I can come up with right now.

She looks up at me in a curious way, and I realize this is the first time I've had a good look at her face. Her features are all rather girly: heart shaped face, small nose, thin lips, sky-blue eyes. Put simply, she's the stereotype of a merchant's daughter. I notice she isn't wearing her reaping clothes either: her girlish figure is enveloped in a fluffy, pink dress, while a bow pulls back her bangs from her face

"I figured I should try to pack on a few pounds before the Games, huh?" She shrugs again, eating another cookie.

I smile. "With food like this," I spin a cookie in my fingers, "It shouldn't be too hard."

She lightly chuckles before going back to her book.

Guess she's not up for conversation. I look out the window, and see that it's begun to rain. Fat drops bat the window, mixing in with others and diagonally streaking the glass. The blurry world behind them stains them in various shades of green, and I can only guess we're passing through a forest. It's calming, and I find myself lying back in my seat, soaking myself in the quiet whisper of static rain. For some strange, unknown reason, I feel at peace for the first time in weeks.


	3. Chapter 3

The faint sound of murmuring train wheels hums through the air as I slowly being to come to my senses. The world is soft around the edges, my body feels heavy, and when I open my eyes, I can tell that time has gone by. The light has changed, the once chilling cedar forest outside has been replaced with rich green sycamores, the shapes of the clouds are different. Had I fallen asleep? I stretch my arms as far as they will go, and the groans in my joints confirm it. I lazily cast an eye around the room and notice Maysilee is gone. No clues of her whereabouts remain, save for a slightly wrinkled chair and a small pile of cookie crumbs in a once-full bowel. I shrug - guess she had other things to do.

I rub my eyes and let out a long yawn. A good nap was long overdue, and I don’t feel as exhausted as I thought I would. The softness and warmth of the chair is tempting, and I ponder on whether I should go back to sleep or not. My growling stomach, however, refuses to give in. The clock on the wall tells it’s almost six, and I haven’t eaten anything but a weak breakfast this morning, so the idea of dinner doesn’t seem half bad. Didn't Vivienne say something about supper? I hope I haven’t missed it. Ah, even if I have, I’ll just order a pound of cake to my room.

 

When I leave the train booth, a man dressed in a sharp blue suit politely directs me to the dining room, informing me that the other tributes will be there soon. I walk down the hall and enter a door with the words _Salle a Manger_ written in cursive gold.

At first glance, the room seems to be completely empty - only when I’m already three steps inside do I notice Emory sitting in one of the divans. With her white shirt and pants, she blends into the paleness of the couch almost perfectly. Looking brilliantly bored with her shoeless feet on a chair, she swipes her finger over some sort of tablet with one hand as she bites the nails of the other. It’s smooth, gray, and as thin as paper - not much different than those devices peacekeepers use to take reaping attendance.

She doesn’t seem to notice me entering, or more likely, pretends not to, so I take my seat at the large table. I notice that it’s already set - a white tablecloth without a single crease or wrinkle covers it, while plates decorated with twining golden vines and blue flowers are scattered above. I can’t stop myself from picking up one of the knifes and examining it, feeling it’s lightless rest on my palm. The silverware is polished to absolute perfection - I can almost make out every ray of sunlight bouncing off of it. I know it’s made of some sort of metal, but I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. I run my thumb over the blunt side. It doesn’t have a rough texture like a pickaxe, nor is it dented or showing any sign of rust. This thing must’ve cost more than a miner could make in his lifetime. Why on earth would you need something this fancy?

A servant passes by me, but Emory calls him before I can ask when dinner will start.

“Hey, you, blondie. Yeah, _you._ ” She snaps, running her fingers through limp white hair,  “Gimme a bottle of whiskey and some ice. And none of that _King Street_ crap, got it?”

The servant hesitates for a moment, though Emory's hard glare forbids him to protest. He quickly nods, leaving the room in a hurry.

Huffing, Emory mutters something under her breath as she tosses the device aside. She looks at me, more out of annoyance that I exist rather than curiosity, and my heart skips a beat. I’d seen her on TV countless times, plus on the reapings every year, but this is the first time I’ve actually paid much attention to her. I suddenly feel very cold. Emory’s eyes give out a hollowness that threatens to swallow me whole - not just because of the solid black color, but because of the lack of life behind them. There’s a darkness in them that’s cold and foreign, like the gaps between the stars. I look away, a shiver still running down my spine as I squirm in my seat.

Emory furrows her brows. “What?” she demands, crossing her bony arms and setting her jaw. Her hands are so white, I can’t tell where the tips of her nails start and the flesh of her fingers ends.

“I, um, I…” I suddenly feel incredibly awkward, “Where’s uh, where’s everyone?”

She doesn’t answer, but instead continues to stare at me, and the hairs on my neck go up. I feel as if she’s walking around me, turning me end for end, shaking me quietly and emptying my pockets without once moving herself. The doors open, and for the first time today, I’m overjoyed to hear Vivienne’s loud jabbering.

“And _I_ told hi- _im_ that such a th _i_ ng would be abso- _lutely_ improp _er_! And _he_ said - oh my, _Hay-_ mitch, you’re he- _re!_ Per-fe _ct!”_ She says, doing a little clap. Behind her are Maysilee and Rhys, both looking like their heads are going to burst any second. Really, can you blame them?

Vivienne asks a waitress to bring out the food as she ushers us into our seats. She’s just about to take one herself when she notices Emory limping out of the room.

“Oh, wh- _at_ are you _doing_?!”, she says with a pout and puppy dog eyes.

“Leaving,” Emory cringes at the sound of Vivienne’s voice, the tendons of her hands jumping out as she grips her cane harder. “If you need something from me, for the love of God, reconsider.”

Vivienne purses her lips and raises her brows in disapproval. She brightens up, however, when the grub arrives moments later.

All us tributes stare in awe as the dishes are placed on the table. Christ, I’ve never seen so much food in my entire _life_. Fruits, meats, greens, reds, oranges - you could feed everyone in the Seam and their mother for a week with all this. Oh dear God, then the smell hits me. Sweet, savory, spicy, sour - every single dish is something different. I waste no time shoveling a bit of everything on my plate, and for the first time in my life, I wish I had a bigger appetite. From the white soups to the fried chicken and pink cupcakes - it tastes so good, I almost forget to breathe. Even though Vivienne keeps on reminding us throughout the feast that more is coming, I can’t help but gulp everything down. When my plate is emptied for the second time, I lick my fingers and wait for the others to finish up. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nauseous, but couldn’t regret a single bite if I tried. If I can eat half rotten apples and molding carrots without hurling, then I’ll be damned if I can’t hold on to this. I look over at Maysilee - how she can bother with using her forks and knives is honestly beyond me.

After the meal, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve as we’re taken out of the dining hall and into yet another fancy, high-tech room, where Vivienne explains that we’ll be watching the recap of the reapings. My stomach groans - for the first time it’s not because of _lack_ of food - as I take a seat between Maysilee and Rhys. Wait a second, where’s Ottilie?

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the TV coming to life. The picture is so clear, so _perfect,_ I can’t help but gaze in awe - not even the screens in the city square are this good. The reapings play, starting with District 1. All four tributes are careers - ditto for Districts 2 and 4. A few of them stand out - a heavily tattooed and pierced boy from 2, a girl with green hair from 4, and a pretty, long-haired blonde from 1. Well, I’m screwed. 3 has a twelve year old, just like Districts 5 and 8. When District 7 comes, I almost have a heart attack - the second tribute, freckled and brown-haired, looks far too much like Alfie for comfort.

District 12, per usual, is the last.  Two blonde girls run up to Maysilee when her name is called, and the three of them share a long, heartfelt hug. I lean forward - are those her sisters? I’m not sure - all the merchant girls look the same to me. The commentators give an exaggerated ‘aww’, then praise Maysilee for her bravery as she marches up the stairs, chin high and eyes narrowed. I can just catch the subtle smirk on her face when they call her a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

When my name is drawn, you can see my shock quickly snap into anger. With balled fists and a set jaw, I look almost pissed off as I push my way through the crowd. They comment on my good looks, but I’m not flattered, seeing as they’d said the same about every other tribute who doesn’t look like they’d gotten run over by a truck. Our pictures flash on the screen again, they cut to the anthem, and the screen fades to black.

Vivienne, as expected, immediately goes into panic mode - how co- _uld_ her dress have _been_ so flu- _ffy_? Or was it _just_ right? Her nails were t _-oo_ red for _sure_ , she sh- _ou_ -ld have gone with f _o_ r b- _lood_ orange! And her h _ai_ r! Su- _ure-_ ly she will be the _lau_ -ghing stock of the Capi- _tol_!

Words cannot express how thankful I am when Maysilee interrupts her. “When will we have a chance to talk to Emory?” She asks in a calm, polite tone, though a subtle hint of annoyance in her voice betrays her.

Vivienne lifts a purple brow, her expression suddenly growing sour. “I don’t kn- _ow,”_ She snaps with a superior air. “I don’t _li_ -ke to waste my ti _-me_ with such _rude_ peopl- _e._ Why, _just to-_ day she _ran_ in _-to_ me! Kn _-ocked_ me down, almo _st_! She _didn’t_ even a- _po-_ logize!”

 

Oh fucking great, the pixie fairy and Cruella Deville don’t like each other. _This_ should be interesting.

 

Despite all of us (more or less) politely declining, Vivienne escorts us back to our rooms. I press the button to open my door, and only when I sit down on the bed do I realize that I’m downright exhausted. My muscles ache, my skin feels too tight, my head heavy on my shoulders. Too much has happened in one day, and I feel myself collapsing on to the blankets. First the shoes, then the shirt, then the pants - stripped down to my underwear, I leave the uncomfortable clothing in an unneat pile the floor. I don’t bother to put on pajamas as I lie down on the soft sheets, sinking into the coldness of the bed, adjusting to the chemical scent of freshly-washed sheets.

Outside, I can see the sun dipping into a beautiful field, painting it in a fiery, burning red, not unlike that of Amelie's hair. The trees in the background are spills of black ink on a colorful canvas, cutting out a jagged horizon. Bloody sunlight spills into the room, illuminating everything around me, making the world seem much more beautiful than it is. Between the earth dashes a glowing river, and I can’t help but wonder, am I really seeing this? Could it just be another screen, another Capitol illusion to trick me? Or could such beautiful scenery truly exist in a time like this? After today, I’m not sure of anything anymore. I close my eyes to the breathtaking landscape, breathing in the unfamiliar air.

The memories of everything I’d been stripped of start to crawl into my mind again, and I let them fly me away into a dreamy delirium. I can feel the warmth of my mother’s skin from the days when she’d hold me as a child, the softness of her cheeks, her delicate hands, her slim shoulders. Alfie’s hair twirls between my fingers, his laugh filling up the silent room, asking me to tell him another story. The curve of my father’s pickaxe next to his mining boots decorates our old door. My friends boots scrape up wet bark as we eat the cherries off our neighbours trees. Amelie’s kiss lingers on my lips, her hands on my chest, her heartbeat next to mine.

Where did it all go? How could I have lost it so easily? Doubt settles into my mind, regret, sadness. Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you’ll find an edge to cut you. I think about all the times I’d hurt people, all the chances I’d had to tell someone I’d loved them and didn’t. I remember how I’d promised to buy Alfie a cupcake for his birthday, how I’d promised to sneak outside the fence one day with my friends. All the moments I could have spent with Amelie, all the flowers I could have planted with mother. Where was I? How could I have missed such wonderful things? More importantly, how could I be realizing all this _now?_

 

I just hope they know how much I love them.

 

My eyes start to burn. The room is so empty - I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

 

I just hope they know I'm _sorry_.

 

One last time, I open my eyes. The fiery field outside has dwindled to embers - the sun has set, enveloping the world in a heavy, thick, suffocating darkness. In the distance, I can faintly see the lights of another district - or are those the stars? I can’t help but wonder about them; all those people, all those families, all those souls - I hope they’re doing alright.

 

My head hurts. Without bothering to crawl under the covers, I close my eyes, and give myself away to this new, strange world.

  


\---

  


_Knock Knock Knock._

 

Where am I? This isn’t my bed. Or my room. Or my home.

 

_Knock Knock Knock_

 

It smells different. Feels different. Like I’m in a vivid dream.

 

_Knock Knock Knock_

 

“Hay- _mich_ you _must_ get _up_!”

 

Oh. _Right_.

 

Without another word, Vivienne struts into my room. The sparkles from her outfit mercilessly shine in my face as she opens the curtains - _who closed them in the first place? -_ and scowls at the pile of clothing on the floor.

“How t _y-_ pical of a _boy_.” She says, kicking my pants to the side with her pointy shoes. “Hay- _mich_? Hay- _mich!_ G _oo_ dness me, ch _i_ ld, wake _up_!”

Hot pink nails are snapped in front of me, and I rapidly blink in confusion. All of this is too much to take in at once. I need a minute. Or a month. Or a year.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll - _ugh_ \- I’ll get ready.” I mumble, shoving the heels of my hands into my eyes. This seems to be enough for her, and she trots out of the room calling Ottilie’s name down the hall.

Sluggishly, I get up. Clothes have already been laid out for me on a chair - the purple pants and orange shirt are a bit too colorful for my tastes, but whatever - and I take my time putting them on. I decide not to brush my teeth or my hair as I exit the chamber and slowly make my way to the dining room.

 

This time around, I’m the last one to arrive. I take a seat next to Ottilie, whose tangled black hair is draped over her face, hands shaking as she pokes on an egg yolk, obviously not intending to eat it. I almost ask her why she hadn’t shown up to dinner last night, but her bloodshot eyes tell me everything I want to know.

I’m served a platter of food the second I sit down, and even though I’m still full from last night, I waste no time digging in. I feel almost awkward being the only one eating - Rhys is already done, and Maysilee is too busy reading yet another book - but the food is far to good to be ignored. I eat my eggs within the minute, and I've started working on some flat, sponge-like things, when I hear the soft hiss of automatic doors followed by a cane tapping the floor.

As joyful as always, Emory limps in. She pulls out a chair for herself and collapses in it, obviously wanting to be anywhere but here. Just as a servant is about to put a plate of pastries in front of her, she waves her off. “Just get me a cup of coffee.” She mumbles, her back slouched and forehead rested in her palms.

“Are you su-” the brunette begins to protest.

“Yes, I think I know what _I_ want better than you do,” She grits her teeth, tone growing sharp, “Now, for the love of God, shut up, and just _get me my coffee_.”

The waitress leaves with pursed lips. Honestly, I’d be surprised if the girl didn’t spit in her drink.

Emory leans on her elbows and stares at us like a farmer picking which pig he’ll make a meal of. I pretend to not notice until her steaming mug of that acrid drink arrives. I whiff the air. Wait, _that’s_ coffee? I wrinkle my nose. Due to its costly price, I’ve never had a chance to try it myself, but with the way people talk about it, I thought it would’ve smelled a little better.

Emory takes three large gulps, letting out a heavy sigh afterwards. A long silence hangs in the air until she finally decides to break it.

“I guess this is the part where you drown me with questions,” she sounds equally exhausted as she does annoyed. “So c’mon, I don’t have all day.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. As expected, Maysilee is the first to pipe up. “Where is Vivienne?”

Emory almost chuckles. “Honestly,” she traces a finger around the rim of her glass, “As long as she’s absolutely _nowhere_ near me, I really couldn’t care less. Next question.”

“Are we gonna be doing anything differently? Because of the Quarter Quell and all?” Rhys asks, and I notice it’s the first time I’ve heard him speak. How someone can be so stoic at a time like this is beyond me.

“Besides the fact that you’re gonna have twice as many people trying to slaughter you? Nah.” Emory croaks as she takes another gulp of coffee, “Riding through the City Circle, training, Gameker’s assessment and all that bullshit stays the same. Before all of that, though, your stylists are going to pluck you like Christmas hens. What else?”

Her enthusiasm is inspiring. I’ve just about gathered the courage to ask a question when a friendly voice announces that we’ll be arriving at the Capitol shortly. Emory looks relieved as she finishes off her mug, throwing it on the table with a _clank_.

“There’s my cue.” She mumbles more to herself than to us, and pulls herself up with wobbling arms. “Be seeing you at dinner, tonight, then.”

“Wait-” I call her just as she’s about to leave. Emory turns around, her white eyebrows knitted.

“What?” she says, her teeth almost gritted and eyes open wide. Screw it, it’s her job to help us out, not my fault she doesn’t want to do it.  

“Any last minute advice for the Games?”

Her face goes from pissed off to neutral so fast it’s almost scary. Emory thinks for a few moments, carefully pondering my question, almost looking like she cares as she picks out an answer.

Finally, she chuckles. “Stay alive.” she says, before disappearing behind metal doors.

I’m not sure if that’s supposed to piss me off or make me laugh. I tighten my jaw, though my attention is taken away when I hear Rhys call out behind me.

“Woah, Nelly.” He slowly rises from the booth, eyes wide and palms pressed the window. He gets out of his seat to walk to a larger window, and the rest of us follow with an equal amount of curiosity.

Our train slows down as we glide into the Capitol, and I am powerless to do anything but gaze in awe. I’d seen pictures and videos of the place, but none of them have done the city justice. From the people, to the streets, to the tall buildings that claw at the sky - everything seems to have it’s own shape, it’s own size, it’s own color. The yellows are sharp, the oranges flashing, the blues deep. It’s shocking, to say the least. As breathtaking as it is, though, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable - where are the houses made of brick and wood? Where are the women walking around with a child in one arm and a basket of apples in the other? Where are the boys playing soccer on the street, rolling around in dust and laughing? Where are the coal-stained miniers, the bakers, the shopkeepers? My head spins. Everything seems so unnatural, so unreal, so _fake,_ I’m not entirely convinced I’m not dreaming.

The train suddenly dips into a sea of cheering people - no doubt they’ve recognized the tribute carriage. Lost in the disarray of the sounds and the colors, I take a few steps back from the thin glass, putting as much space between me and the people who have come for no other reason than to be entertained by my death. _Get away from me,_ I want to tell them. _Just_ leave _me._

Vivienne suddenly trots into the room, eyes not moving from her pocket mirror as she applies more glitter to her jawline. She grabs a breakfast roll from a basket, careful to not smudge her lipstick as she takes a bite, and looks at us with lively eyes.

“You _must_ be ex- _ci_ -ted!” She says after swallowing, checking to make sure there aren’t crumbs left between her teeth. “I know I am! C _o_ me now _,_ we _mu-st_ l _ea_ ve if we want the _cam_ eras to get a sh _ot_ of your _gor_ geous fac _es_!”

I take a deep breath. That’s the exact _opposite_ of what I want, but this doesn’t exactly seem to be up for debate. She rushes us to the train doors, the bows in her hair bouncing with every step she takes in her purple heels.

As I step outside, or more accurately, as I’m _pushed_ outside, I nearly go deaf from all the noise. Cameras snap, lights flash, people call out our names and shout questions that I can’t quite catch.  Someone keeps pushing me from behind, ushering me into a building that makes me sweat by just looking at it.

 

The Training Center.

 

I don’t know what scares me more - the thought that I’m going to be spending my last days here, or its monstrous size. My heart sinks - in front of this building, in this sea of people, never in my life have I felt this small, this insignificant, this trivial to the world around me.

I’m broken out of my thoughts by another shove to the back. I look at the crowd of people - old men with cigars, girls blowing kisses, reporters extending their microphones all flash by me as I go past them, and I notice I’m almost jogging. Right now, I only know one thing - I want to get away from these people no matter what. Chest tight, legs wobbling, I make my way into the gigantic structure before me. It doesn’t exactly scream ‘safety’ in my mind, but I’d run into a pit of bears if that meant I’d get out of here.

Peacekeepers open the huge doors for us, and I have to stop myself from begging to slam them behind me. Emory, of course, is the last to limp in, and just as the doors behind us, I cast one last glance into the crowd. In between a girl with purple-tinted skin and a man in a neon suit, I swear I can see my mother, smiling.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Right now, there are 3 things I'm absolutely certain of:

Firstly, the sun does not rise on the west.

Secondly, water is wet.

Thirdly, my prep team is trying to kill me.

I squint my eyes against the bright light that is once again mercilessly shone in my face, the heat from the lightbulb blushing my once pock-marked skin. After being stripped down to my underwear and placed on a metal table like a lab monkey, I find myself wondering how far I could run from here before the Peacekeepers would catch me. The manicured fingers of Genia, a pink-tinted woman with duck-like lips, pull back the skin of my eyebrows as she gets to work, her golden pincers plucking off stray hair with perfect precision.

"Please, stay _still_!", she says, and I feel her grip on my head tighten. Ever since she's made a remark about how cute I am when I wince, I haven't made a sound. "Frena, be a deerie and do his arms, would you?"

I grit my teeth. I honestly don't know what's worse - the physical pain of them mutilating me or the mental anguish of listening to them talk. They gossip about celebrities, talk the latest fashion dos and don'ts, and miserably fail at convincing me I'll have a lovely time at the Capitol. Although I'm tempted, I don't bother to protest. I figure that the less I struggle, the sooner this humiliation/torture will be over.

Frena takes my arm with one hand and mixes some sort of sap-like substance with the other, then proceeds to spreads it over my knuckles. She waits for it to cool as she slathers my other hand, humming a high-pitched tune under her breath.

"Wait, what are you going to d- _ **Oh**_ _**son of a**_ _-_ " I yell as she rips it off, along with all my hair and two layers of skin.

" _Language_!" Frena cuts me off, ripping the other one off in a swift motion as well. Out of all of the people I've seen here, she's undoubtedly the most grotesque. Rust-colored cat ears peak out through her orange dreads, and below them lies a nose that's been mutilated to be completely flat. As if she didn't look ridiculous enough, long, colorful whiskers that bounce when she speaks point out of her upper lip, glinting in strange colors as the lights catch them. _Whiskers,_ for God's sake.

But I digress. Cat-woman rubs some sort of cream on my knuckles, soothing whatever's left of my raw, aching skin. She tells Efrem, a short man with a bow-shaped beard and a belly the size of a boulder to get to work on my hair, purring out detailed instructions on where to cut and how long to keep it.

Efrem listens to her joyfully as he claps his hands, bringing over about a dozen pairs of scissors, each of them with its own size, shape, and color. "Snip, snip, snip!" He proudly announces every time he sends a swirl of hair to the ground. He looks so idiotic, I have to bite on my tongue so I don't burst out laughing. By the time he's finished, most of it's scattered on the floor, and is swept away by Genia moments later.

Finally, they stand me up, each one of them with their own thoughtful expression as they look over every inch of my skin, hunting for specs of dirt and stray hairs. I'd feel violated, but they're so stupid and look so ridiculous I can't it muster it up - it's like a bunch of monkeys in colorful suits are dancing around me. Hell, I'm almost amused. After pulling out the last of my hairs, they step back, all of them with ear-to-ear smiles on their wax-like faces.

"Don't you just feel _so_ much better?" Frena says, her ears pointing upwards as she tilts her head.

"You're so handsome now!" Genia's purple eyes gleam under the lights.

"Most gorgeous one in the Games!" Efrem smiles.

"Maybe we should-" "How about-?" "We should leave it-" "Just a bit perha-" "But no-" "Akri will-"

"Have you finished?", a voice far too calm and cool to belong to one of them vibrates off the metal walls. They all fall silent, and as if on cue, turn around to greet the woman simultaneously.

"Oh yes, Akri! Doesn't he look so much better now?" Efrem's face lights up, fat fists balled to his chest in excitement. I notice the seams of his jacket stretch under his weight. How his lime-green suit buttons haven't burst yet is beyond me.

I lean to the left for a better view. A tall woman stands against the door frame with crossed arms, her heart-shaped face tilted slightly backwards. Behind her, jet-black hair striped with metallic highlights falls down to her hips in a sleek ponytail. Wrapped around her hourglass figure is a tight jumpsuit, while boots of the same color show off long legs. Her outfit reminds me of a mountain lake - that gem-like shade that doesn't quite have a name. As stupid as Capitol style is, I gotta admit, she doesn't look that bad.

"You've done a great job." She says softly, ruffling Efrem's hair. I half expect her to give him a doggy treat and tell him what a good boy he is. "I can take over from here."

The prep team looks at each other with wide grins as they scatter out of the room, giggling amongst themselves, leaving me alone with the strange woman.

She waits until the door closes behind them, then lightly chuckles under her breath. "Hello, Haymitch." The woman says, her back straight as she slowly walks to me. Her heels click on the floor like a heartbeat. "I'm Akri, and I'll be your stylist. Pleasure to meet you."

"Um, hi." I say, suddenly aware that I'm almost naked. I'm not used to being shirtless, let alone _pantless_ in front of a woman I've never met before, so I cross my arms in front of myself in some pathetic attempt to cover up. I know she's probably seen half the Capitol naked at some point or another, but I can't help it. I've always hated showing off my body. She seems to sense my nervousness, however, and gives me a reassuring smile.

"Don't be embarrassed." She says, gently ruffling my shortened hair, her long fingers reaching to the back of my scalp. "After all, I'm your friend now."

Friend. I run the word through my mind again. It sounds strange coming from someone I've never met before, but she says it so sincerely I don't know how to respond.

She places a finger on my chin and lifts it up, her relaxed expression unwavering as she takes mental notes of every line, crease, and bump on my face. I know that look: it's the same one my mother has when she sows my clothing: lips slightly pursed, jaw just barely tensed, eyes delicately narrowed. Such interesting eyes she has, too - not just one shade of black, but … many, with hints of brown and green that glimmer among the bright lights. They're decorated with mascara and turquoise eyeliner, the wing of it shaped into an elegant, spiralling wave.

"I hope they didn't give you too much of a hard time." She says, taking a step backwards. "Took quite a bit off of you, though, didn't they?"

I shrug. "Just all my hair, three or so layers of skin - oh, and whatever was left of my dignity."

Akri chuckles at my comment, her slant eyes crinkling at the ends. "Try not to get too upset at them." She slowly walks around me, "I know they can go a bit… over the top, but please believe me, they're only trying to help."

I raise my brows, following the movements of this strange woman without moving my head. Her pace is slow, careful, elegant, as if she were a dancer not daring to take a wrong step, and thus ruining a perfectly planned out choreography. Even though she's dressed to the nines, she could very well be the most down to earth person I've met today. I expected someone with three eyebrows and a split tongue to come in and stare at me like a cook figuring out how he'll fry a steak, only to decide they'd need to re-shape my entire face and cut off two fingers. So far, Akri doesn't fit the role at all. She carries a different air around her - it's calm, pleasant, somewhat lightweight. Her movements are relaxed, her words have a purpose. Even her perfume smells like a cooling mint.

"I try not to judge." I lie, and from the way Akri lifts her silver brows it's obvious she doesn't believe me. Still, she doesn't say a word as she steps back, looking for something around the room.

"Fit, strong…" She she whispers to herself, "You've hurt your arm quite badly before, though, haven't you?"

"Sorta, I uh... yeah." I manage to mumble out, praying she doesn't ask how.

"The same goes for the rest of your body." She puts a finger to her lip, as though in deep thought. "You've taken quite a beating throughout the years."

It's not a question, but I respond anyway: "Is it that noticeable?" I ask, genuinely curious. I mean, I have some scars, but who doesn't?

"I'm a stylist, Haymitch, I've worked with bodies for years. I can tell when one's taken far more than it's fair share of violence." She hands me a thin, green robe. "Come now, let's get some lunch and talk a bit."

I slide on the garments and follow her out as goosebumps crawl over my hairless skin. Only when I move do I notice how awkward my body feels. It's softer, tighter, and even with my robe on, I feel naked. I notice every breeze that passes over me, tickling my senses, sending waves of odd chills down my neck and spine. I can almost make out every string in my robe as I slide it on, my feet patting the unusually warm floor as I follow her out.

I try to adjust to this new body as we walk down a short hallway, then turn into a room with a less mourgue-like feeling. Three walls are made of some soft, blue material, the fourth nothing but glass, opening up to a bird's eye view of the city below me.

Akri takes a seat on one of the orange couches, though I can't help but walk past her and look outside - colorful, bright buildings are sprinkled all over the landscape, covering the hills, filling the valleys, even going past the horizon. Sunlight illuminates off their windows, mirroring patches of blue sky - it seems to be the only natural color in the entire city.

"Enjoying the view?" Akri asks, pressing a green button on the table. The top of it splits in half, and from below it comes another one with a buffet on it.

I blink a few times, soaking in the view. "It's like it never ends." I say, my voice barely a whisper, not out of amazement, but horror. How many people live like this - their days colorful and bright, with all the time in the world to mutilate and paint themselves, pressing buttons to get food, living a life completely oblivious to all the people dying of hunger and sleeping in cardboard boxes while they're blinded by their own fantasy town? Do they ever wonder about the Districts that slave away so that they can live in luxury? Do they even _care_?

Only when Akri calls me over to eat do I notice my hands have been balled into tight, painful fists. My manicured fingernails have left red imprints on my palms from how hard I'd pressed, and they ache when I relax them. The tips of my white fingers flush red as my blood flows back into them, before finally shifting back to their natural pink hue. Suddenly, I don't feel hungry at all, but sit down on one of the divans anyway.

Akri fills her plate with all sorts of food - a turkey leg, mashed potatoes with gravy, peas, some sort of jelly, a cupcake. Finally, a ruby colored liquid gushes into her glass from a tube under the table, filling it halfway.

"Wine?" She asks, swishing the liquid in her glass. It glints under the light of the room, casting violent red shadows on the table.

"I'm good." I respond, nibbling on a bread crust. It leaves a dusty feeling in my mouth, tasting less like food and more like chalk, so I give up on it rather quickly.

Thankfully, Akri doesn't comment on my lack of appetite. "So, now that we've introduced ourselves, I feel it's time we talk about your opening ceremony costumes…"

I brace myself.

"As you know," She says slowly, almost hesitantly, "We stylists traditionally strive to represent your districts as best we can through your outfits. Therefore, my… colleagues and I have decided to go with something along these lines." Akri pulls out a picture from her pocket and hands it to me.

I blink several times at the sight of it, making sure my eyes aren't playing tricks on me. The image is a man dressed in a coal miner's outfit - muscular, obviously well fed, with a clean-shaven face and blonde hair almost as bright as his smile. A pickaxe rests on his shoulder, a miner's hat on his head. He doesn't have a speck of dirt on him, and he looks into the camera with a joyful expression. Next to him, a woman in a blue dress is laughing, her luscious brown curls shining over her bare, pale collarbones. In her arms, she carries a fat baby with a toothless smile, wrapped in a pink blanket. Above them, the words _District Twelve_ are written in fancy, golden letters.

_This_ is what these people think Twelve looks like? I'm at a loss for words. I feel anger claw under my skin as I connect the dots: so this is why the Capitolians don't care about us. Their government is feeding them horrible lies, convincing them that everything is beautiful and perfect in this sickening world. They don't even realize what a bunch of bastards are pulling the strings - how could they? It takes all my self control to not rip the picture to shreds and find something to burn it with.

"Of course," Akri continues, ignoring the fact that I've gone as red as a tomato, "We've made some... slight changes."

I look upwards. This entire trip here, I'd told myself I'd prepared for the worst.

I was very, _very_ wrong.

She pushes another button, and a space in the floor opens up, baring my outfit on a white hanger. I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the horrible rags. 'Slight' is an interesting way to put it. 'Removing half the clothing and adding three pounds of glitter' is more accurate. It's nothing but a pair of sparkling, shortened overalls, a shiny belt, black boots, and a golden helmet. I look at Akri - and to think she might've been better than this.

"I know what you're thinking..." She says, puckering her lips.

"I've never seen something more disgusting in my life." I wrinkle my nose.

She sighs, looking down at her hands almost shamefully. "I couldn't agree more."

I lift a brow. Wait, what?

"I wanted to do something completely different, but the others insisted this was the way to go." She explains, her expression souring. "I mean, if it was up to me -" She stops herself, running a row of white teeth over her upper lip, as though afraid someone might hear her. "Well, does it matter? It was three against one. For what it's worth, I'd like to say I'm sorry."

I mentally apologize for my earlier comment. She shows genuine regret as she hands it to me, letting out a painful sigh.

"C'mon" Akri says, trying to brighten up, "The ceremony starts in a few hours. Best we get you off to makeup."

 

* * *

 

 

After looking at my reflection in the polished side of the chariot, I've concluded that I'd rather put on a tiara and dance ballet in front of the Capitol than let them see me like this.

It's hard to believe I lost five layers of skin just to spend hours in make-up with those rainbow monkeys to get covered in dirt again. It doesn't even look like genuine dirt - I'm _sparking_ for God's sake. They even painted my nails pitch black with stripes of gold and gave me fake earrings. Unlike my mother, I've never been much of a believer, but if Hell is real, I doubt it's much different than this.

I look over to Maysilee, who waits patiently for the ceremony to begin. Her face is slender and milk-white, almost free from the rough, fake coal dust, and in it is a kind of gentle hunger that touches over everything with tireless curiosity. It's a look, almost, of pale surprise; her blue eyes are so fixated to the world that no move escapes them. Her slim body, thankfully, is covered by a white tank-top - at least her stylist had the common sense to realize she's just a girl and cover her a bit more. Me and Rhys, on the other hand, are shirtless, our black-stained chests only covered by the overalls' straps. Ottilie only has a dark bra and fake coal dust to cover her. What is it with these people and their love for nudity?

I can't stand to look at our outfits anymore. I turn my attention to the other tributes: swarming them like ants, their stylists and prep teams add the finishing touches to the their costumes, ranging from anything between fake leaves and gold dust to pearls and eyeliner. The faint smell of hay and sugar coats the air - it's nothing like the scent of stables back home. Everything is so over-glamorized here, even the most vile things are presented as something beautiful. The suffering Districts, the unpleasant smells, bodily imperfections, and worst of all, the Games. Just being in this very city makes me sick - how can everything be so _wrong?_

Maysilee looks at me, if only for a second, before turning to the great, metal walls that separate us from the crowd iron doors are unremarkable, though undeniably impenetrable. Their studded surface as like a slab of starless sky.

Her expression is as flat at the doors themselves - if she hadn't picked off the nailpolish from her thumb, I wouldn't have been able to guess that she's nervous. Her back is straight, her lips slightly parted, her blonde hair flows down her neck and on her chest in a braid. I'm envious of her - I could never act so stoic in a time like this.

Akri walks over to me, pulling me out of my thoughts. She reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder, but ultimately decides against it. "How are you feeling?", She asks, a soft smile on her face.

Does it matter? I answer honestly, anyway. "Like I want to _not_ ride around half-naked through the Capitol, thanks."

Akri pauses a moment, though keeps her reassuring expression. "I know you have no reason to think so, but believe me when I tell you that they'll love you, alright? Just because you hate it" - she gestures to my outfit - "doesn't mean _they_ will."

I look at her, my brows furrowed. "Someone could actually _like_ this thing? I'm sorry, but don't buy it."

She shakes her head. "It's not just your outfit, Haymitch, it's _you,_ okay? You're good looking, you're witty when you want to be, you've got a strong attitude - you're _interesting_ to this people. You're _exciting._ " She says with confidence, "I know you don't want to hear it, but it's the truth. Your life depends on their goodwill. Please, just try to be friendly with them - for _your_ sake."

I gnaw on my lower lip. Goddamn it, I hate to admit it, but she's right. Playing the pissed-off tribute isn't going to make this any easier - if I want to stand a chance, I have to be smart about this. The Games aren't just about knowing fifty ways to stab a person, you have to know how to work with people, too.

Because, of course, I totally don't suck at that.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. These rainbow monkeys want a show? Fine, I'll give 'em one.

A voice booms through the room, announcing that the first carriages will be leaving in thirty seconds. Outside, I can already hear the anthem playing through the massive doors, and in spite of myself, I shudder. Maysilee waves at me to come over to her - apparently we'll be riding together. I thank Akri before I climb on the chariot, and she softly smiles in return. I've barely put my other foot in the chariot when District 11's horses are already whisking them away, ours soon trotting after.

"District Twelve!" A voice drowns out the anthem, and all heads are turned to us. I freeze for a moment, feeling a sense of sickness spread through my gut. The realization that every single person in Panem is watching me right now hits my mind like an avalanche, covering me with poisonous thoughts and malicious doubts. _Two seconds,_ I tell myself. _You have two seconds to calm down._ In the midst of my confusion, I grasp the leather reins as if to steady myself. _Okay. You can do this._

My two seconds are up. Ignoring my nervousness, I put on a sly smirk as everyone looks at our chariot, cheering as we ride deeper into the city. I wave the the crowd, they wave back. I smile, they smile back. Maybe these people being idiots isn't a bad thing - at least they're easy to win over.

Even though I know this is all superficial, even though I know they've cheered like this for every other tribute, I feel a sense of pride coming over me. They chant my name, throw flowers, send kisses. There are few things in this world I hate more than large crowds, but I keep my posture straight as I look at the big screen. The portraits of Twelve's tributes are plastered all over the city. The glitter on my face draws out my cheekbones and jawline at awkward angles, my gray eyes almost blend in with the dust. I feel ashamed, but continue to be friendly with the crowd. Why not? I tell myself. Besides my dignity, what have I got to lose?

I feel like my face is going to fall off by the time we've reached the City Circle. I relax my smile for but a moment, though quickly put it back on when our horses have trotted to their place. The music begins to fade away, and despite the almost sticky heat of the darkening afternoon, I sense unexplainable chill crawl over me. Around us, many of the Capitol's most prestigious citizens are arranged in a circle, their colorful attire like splashes of paint on the unusually white buildings, patiently waiting for Snow to come out. Their chatter is a faint undertone as they already begin to pick out their favorites among us, undoubtedly placing bets and criticizing our outfits. I smile wider, begging my heart to stop slamming against the walls of my ribcage.

By now, the music is completely gone. In front of us is the President's mansion, and from one of its balconies, I can see Snow himself. He holds speech cards in his hands, not unlike those used for the Quarter Quell annunciation. As he goes on with the traditional welcome, I allow myself a quick glance at the tributes around me, soaking in as much as I can. There aren't really any outfits that I'd say stand out in particular - no that they aren't flashy, mind you, just nothing I'd call 'new'. District 1 is covered in a waterfall of gold and diamonds, their pale skin sprinkled with shining dust, perfectly matching the tributes' gleaming, blonde hair. District 3 is coiled in wires and pecked with bolts, 4 is dressed in outfits made of seaweed, 7 is covered in some weird, bark-like substance with branches sticking out like antennas. The only district that's more bare than ours is 2 - over their bodies, they have nothing but a chainmail tunic for the girls and togas for the boys. The tattooed one I'd picked on the reaping recaps looks... disturbing, to say the least. His thick brows are prominent, his jaw set, the muscles on his arms and chest bulging under an array of black tattoos and swollen veins. The piercings on his eyebrows and ears send off a display of reflecting light, making him stand out even more. With his large, square head and black, crew-cut hair, he looks absolutely gruesome - a shaved gorilla comes to mind. Even so, with his size, he's undoubtedly one of this year's favorites. I've never heard his name - correction, I never bothered to learn it - so a nickname seems in order. _Tats_ will do.

To my great relief, Snow quickly finishes. He ends the speech by congratulating us for being this year's tributes - _bastard,_ I think, still smiling - before retreating into his home. The crowd cheers, and once again, the chariots move, driving us back to the Training Centre.

Me and Maysilee roll in last. When the metal doors close, once again muffling out the sounds of a cheering crowd, Akri helps me down.

"Told you it wasn't so bad." She smirks, very pleased with either with me or herself. There's a mixture of a somewhat mother-like softness and playfulness in her eyes. My stylist slightly bends downwards to keep me at eye level as she ruffles my hair. "I knew you could do it."

I don't know exactly what to tell her. A thank you seems in order, but before I can open my mouth, the prep team drags me out of the stables to scrub me clean. As I leave, Akri simply waves, before turning around and going her own way.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thanks so much for reading! Feedback is always welcome. Hope you enjoyed!


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